


this island we cling to

by daymarket



Category: X-Men (Movies), X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Isolation, M/M, Prison
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-26
Updated: 2014-11-26
Packaged: 2018-02-27 02:51:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2676227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daymarket/pseuds/daymarket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The setting in Erik's story is often the same: the silence digging deep under his skin, circling his thoughts and clawing away at his sanity. In the darkness, the only difference that really matters is Charles' changing role.</p><p>A 4+1 fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	this island we cling to

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Garonne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Garonne/gifts).



> Notes: This follows kinda-sorta from prompt one by the lovely Garonne, which asked for an angsty fic with bittersweet reminisces and painful meetings. I kept thinking about Erik’s ten-year-long vacation in the Pentagon and what it could do to the mind, and this sort of spiraled from there. In particular, the article http://www.bbc.com/future/story/20140514-how-extreme-isolation-warps-minds was very informative about isolation and its effects on the mind. The section header quotes come from that article (albeit a bit cropped). 
> 
> This briefly brushes on some events in X1/2, but for the most part stays within FC and DoFP canon.

I.

_Without social interaction, supermax prisoners have no way to test the appropriateness of their emotions or their fantastical thinking…this is one of the reasons many suffer anxiety, paranoia and obsessive thoughts._

And at the end of it all, there’s the Room.

Herr Schmidt laughs as Erik is taken away from his Mamma, laughs as he’s thrown into the utter blackness. How long he’s been here; he doesn’t know: the Room gives him no way of knowing, with its eternal darkness threatening to swallow him whole. In the void, the laughter continues to echo, burrowing deep under his skin and seeping into the bone. There’s nothing to hold onto here—no home, no safety, no Mamma to hold him close.

It wouldn’t be so bad if there were somebody, something, anybody to keep the laughter at bay. It drills into his ears, mocking him softly with his failures. Move the coin, Erik. Make the metal dance, Erik. Your Mamma’s waiting for you, and all you can do is fail, again and again, watching her fall a hundred thousand times until she shatters to pieces. You deserve this, don’t you? Herr Schmidt is only giving you what you deserve…

He tells the voice no. When it doesn’t listen, he _screams_ , fighting to drown out the pervasive mockery drumming through his every muscle. The walls are pressing in, too close and too tight, and he beats at them helplessly with tiny weak fists. He strains with his metal-sense, trying to find some weapon he can use to fight back, some master that he can appease.

Something brushes across his senses, and he tenses, eyes wide open in the pitch blackness. _Hold me_ , it whispers, and he pulls at it, his heart racing. It’s a thready, weak voice under the laughter, but he jerks frantically at it, willing the metal to come close. “Just a little more,” he says, and his voice is cracked and broken even to his own ears. Bracing both hands against the wall, he stares into the blackness and _pulls_ as hard as he possibly can, feeling the blood as it rushes through him, hot and sticky and laced with _power_.

He doesn’t know how long it is when he wakes up next, but the only he cares about is that the laughter is finally gone. There’s something beeping softly to his left. His head is swaddled in something soft, and as he reaches up to touch it, his wrist is caught by some chain, falling back to his side. Soft voices, none of them contemptuous, and Erik sucks in a breath with joyful, giddy relief. He’s free. He’s out. There’s nothing that can—

“Ah, Erik.”

He flinches and jerks away, but the chains catch him short. There’s a hand on his, and he tries to pull away, but his fingers won’t seem to stop shaking. “Ssshhh, shhh, good boy,” Herr Schmidt’s voice says. He sounds…kind. Gentle. And Erik knows it’s a lie, a horrific lie that took his Mamma and condemned him to darkness, but he can’t help angling towards it like a flower to the sun. Maybe it’s just a dream, he hopes fervently. Maybe it never was. Maybe it’s over…

“You’ve done very well,” the voice continues. So kind, so gentle. “You pulled the whole block down.” Herr Schmidt’s thumb runs slow, soothing circles over his hand. “I’m very, _very_ pleased with your progress.”

The voice is soft, almost hypnotic. It’s his everything after the Room. He hurts all over, so very much, but he can’t stop the soft tears of relief that stain the bandage, clog up his nose, make his ribs ache with relief and joy. It’s over. Isn’t it? It’s _over_.

~*~

(He’s wrong, of course. It’s only just barely begun.)

* * *

II.

_He kept his sanity during 10 years of solitary confinement by taking refuge in a world of abstractions…_

He supposes that he could keep track of the days by the number of times the lights switch off, but honestly, does it matter? There are these five walls around him and that glass ceiling through which a fleeting face appears three times a day. There are the magnetic forces of the earth humming softly around him and below him, just barely tangible enough to be tempting but not enough to break him free. And of course, there are _them_ —the faces that waver in the corner of his eye, always vanishing when he turns his head.

The faces aren’t so bad, really. They’re a splash of color on otherwise monotone walls, and he imagines it all as a game of sorts. Who are the ghosts who have chosen to haunt him today? Azazel is an easy one to pick out, as any sign of red usually wins the game. Riptide and Angel are a bit harder to puzzle out, while Emma is the ultimate challenge. He even sees Mystique sometimes and takes it as due confirmation that she’s joined their ranks. Occasionally, some of Charles’ children _(Charles_ ) join the flickers of color. He tends to ignore those.

Funnily enough (in a dark, depressing sort of way), Charles himself never shows up in those ghostly visions. Erik strains to catch glimpses of curls of brown hair or bright blue eyes, but it’s almost as if his subconscious is taunting him by denying him Charles. He sometimes wonders if Charles is searching for him on Cerebro. After all, the last Erik had heard—the last he’d known before he’d been sealed away in this white prison—Charles had established his school. Charles must search out students, and he must know about the Kennedy trial. Wouldn’t he try to find Erik in one idle Cerebro session?

“You must be curious,” Erik says softly as he stirs the plastic spoon idly through the strange oatmeal that passes for breakfast. The ambient humming of the building is his only answer, but Erik has faith in Charles. Charles: silly, nosy, naïve Charles, always wanting to believe the best of people. Charles might even be listening just now as Erik lies down to sleep, or as he works his way through yet another set of pushups, or as he murmurs Charles’ name before spilling into his hand. It’s a strange, one-sided voyeurism of sorts, with Charles acting as the silent observer, the documenter of all things Erik Lehnsherr. “You know I didn’t kill him,” he adds. “Do you mourn your sister, then? No doubt you’ve buried her with all due pomp and ceremony. I wonder if she would appreciate it? She’s not a little girl anymore, you know.”

Charles doesn’t answer. Erik imagines him huffing with annoyance: his arms folded and his mouth quirked just slightly with amusement and exasperation. “Are you taking up the banner, then, Charles?” Erik asks archly. “You’re probably relieved that I’m trapped here, no doubt, but meanwhile, our brethren face slaughter and persecution.” He leans forward, intent. “You can’t hide in that school of yours forever.”

A wrinkle appears between Charles’ brows as he frowns, shaking his head. “Come on,” Erik urges. “You must know what Trask and the others like him have done. If you don’t care about the others, at least shed a tear for your precious sister and Banshee. You won’t commemorate their deaths with action? Tell me you’re watching, Charles. You know what has to be done.”

Erik never knows what the answer will be. Sometimes, Charles will slowly nod in assent, the plush line of his mouth firming as he understands. Sometimes, Charles will throw up his hands and turn his back. Sometimes—and this is the worst of them all—Charles will do nothing, his eyes watching Erik in cold, clear judgment. That’s when Erik has to turn away and bring himself back to reality, reminding himself that Charles in all likelihood doesn’t spend his time watching Erik. Perhaps Charles doesn’t care at all, too busy with his students and his school and his mission. It’s a blessing, really, because then Erik can close away those clear blue eyes and resign himself to white.

~*~

(It's not until years later when a guard shows that fatal weakness, allowing Erik to break free, that he finally gets to see Charles face-to-face. Charles has changed so much from his hallucination-self: not just the hair, which is atrocious, but also the anger and bitterness that’s carved itself into his face. He's a drunken, pitiful mess, nothing at all what Erik imagined. And when he tells Erik that he’s locked away his powers, proving that he _couldn’t_ have been listening—it’s a crushing blow in more ways than one. Charles still won’t do what has to be done.)

(It’s Erik’s turn now.)

* * *

III.

_With no one to mediate our feelings of fear, anger, anxiety and sadness and help us determine their appropriateness, before long they deliver us a distorted sense of self, a perceptual fracturing or a profound irrationality. It seems that left too much to ourselves, the very system that regulates our social living can overwhelm us._

His prison is plastic, but at least it offers more variety in the view. The highlights of his cell are the books stacked neatly on a little plastic shelf and a chessboard where Erik spends long hours replaying their games. Somehow, despite all the strategizing, Charles still manages to win about half of the matches. It’s aggravating and challenging all at once, and Erik is determined to beat him. He’ll take his small triumphs as he can, petty though they may be.

He watches the guards change shifts, regular as clockwork three times a day. Charles comes with every twenty-first shift change, and his companion varies: sometimes it’s Jean Grey, the girl that they found together. Sometimes it’s a cocky-looking man wearing sunglasses of some sort indoors (a dreadfully pretentious habit, he’s always found). Sometimes it’s a young woman with a shock of explosive white hair, all the other details incomprehensible with the distance. Either way, what matters most is Charles, calm and serene in his plastic wheelchair as he wheels through the walkway.

Today, Charles moves slowly, so very interminably slowly down the walkway, each inch as if wheeling thorugh molasses. “Hello,” he says when he enters (finally!), and Erik forces himself to not lean closer. There’s a wrapped box on Charles’ lap that Charles hands to him, and Erik has to resist the urge to rip it open. “I brought you those books you wanted." He grins. "And cake."

The last word is incongruous enough that all Erik can do is blink at him. It takes another moment before he carefully opens the box. There are the books, which he sets aside, and wrapped in saran plastic is a generous slice of chocolate cake. There’s a lopsided frosted rose on the side, clearly fallen off the top. Erik looks up at Charles, and the other man offers a small smile. “One of the students was having a birthday party and we had about half a cake left. I thought you might like variety from prison food.”

Erik swallows hard. “Oh,” he says, and there’s a strange, faint ringing in his ears. “Leftovers.” He looks back down at the cake, and it’s so utterly _pitiful_ —the remnants of someone else’s happiness for the neutered prisoner. “I suppose I should thank you for thinking of me.”

Charles frowns. Erik can feel a faint tendril of thought brush his mind, and he gives it the mental equivalent of a slap. “I have little enough privacy these days,” he says nastily. “I suppose you want to take this last shred away from me as well?”

Charles looks steadily at him, and Erik hates himself a little bit. He refuses to back down, though, meeting Charles’ gaze squarely with what feels more like bravado than anything else. He feels lightheaded, almost, and he’s not sure if this is born out of power or desperation. Probably the latter, he thinks cynically, and that just presses in how far he’s fallen. Trapped in concrete, trapped in plastic—either way he’s always needed Charles to save him, and that’s _pathetic_.

“Erik,” Charles begins slowly. Erik imagines a little sign lighting up in Charles’ head: DANGEROUS AND VICIOUS, MAY BITE. HANDLE WITH CAUTION. After all, Charles has more than enough reason to be wary of Erik, considering that Erik took his precious student; poisoned Cerebro. "You know that I try to respect your privacy. Are you all right?" Charles asks, and Erik wants to laugh at the concern in his voice. Why does Charles care, still? Is he really _that_ much of a fool?

“Stop talking,” he says, the words coming out harsher than he intended. Charles’ mouth snaps shut, and Erik clenches his jaw. He breathes out hard through his nose and untwists his hands in his lap before speaking again. “Why do you keep coming, Charles? To mock? Gloat? I would do it again if I had to." He clenches his jaw the second that the words slip out. He would do anything to save mutantkind, it's true, and the sacrifice of the girl was for the greater good. Charles is the one who doesn't understand, never has...

Right?

Charles is silent for a moment, his gaze fixed steadily on Erik's. Erik doesn't actively feel him rummaging about in his head, but Charles has only grown into his power since those halcyon pre-Cuba days, and here, Erik is only more defenseless than ever. Finally, Charles says in a strange tone of voice, “I’ll talk with the warden again.” Charles is saying over the drumming in Erik’s ears. “I don’t think it’s good for you to only have one visitor a week.”

Put it that way, it really is pitiful, isn’t it? One visitor a week, because that’s all who cares to visit him. Mystique might stand by him still, but he hasn’t heard from her, not unless this Charles is her clever disguise. The Brotherhood have vanished the moment he was captured. If Charles were in this situation, his X-Men would be storming the gates. They’re stupid but slavishly loyal, and there’s nothing Charles can’t do to make them dance to his tune. _But then again_ , a voice whispers, _Charles would never be in the situation in the first place, now would he?  
_

Erik shakes his head violently in a futile attempt to dislodge the voice. "You told me to stay away," he says, and he knows how disjointed he sounds, an old, useless husk rambling into empty air. "Why do you still come, then? There's nothing for you here."

A furrow appears between Charles' brows, and it takes too long before it smooths away in comprehension. "My students are off-limits to you," he says, and his voice is firm. "Whatever conflict you and I wage, they are to stay out of it." He pauses. "But that doesn't mean that I don't think there's still hope for you."

There's so much hypocrisy in that short statement, and, well, that's nothing new to Charles, is it. Charles was the first to drag their students into war, after all, and now he's the puppetmaster, pulling the strings behind the scenes while mutants die in the streets. Charles drank and hid and despaired for years while Erik rotted in prison, and God only knows what finally prompted him to emerge from his self-induced stupor. And now he's here, lording it over Erik with his books and his cake and his lies. "Get out," he snarls, and his voice is shaking.

Charles leans forward in his chair, eyes intent. “Erik,” he says, and it’s unfair how his accent shapes Erik’s name. “Look at me. The cause you fought for isn't dead, Erik, it's just—"

“Look around you, Charles,” Erik says, the words sharp and bitter. “Do I look like I can do anything about it?” He looks away. “You may as well leave. I find it strange that you care now, when all those years you hid in your house and rotted.”

He can’t see Charles’ expression from this angle, but he can tell that Charles draws back. There’s a long pause before Charles speaks again, and his voice is eerily calm. “Perhaps this is a bad week,” he says. “Do you want to play chess? Take your mind off of things?”

“Get _out_ ,” Erik says. He looks back at Charles. “I don’t need your pity.”

After another interminable long moment, Charles obeys. Erik can hear the hissing of the door as Charles leaves. The cake is still in its wrap, and he throws it to the floor in some petty act of defiance. It hits the plastic and…and, well, nothing. It’s a slice of cake, the frosted rose wilted and smashed. The books have spilled across the ground, the chess pieces fallen. The room is empty.

~*~

(He very carefully does not cry. Tears, as he’s long learned, do nothing.)

* * *

IV.

 _We all want to be alone from time to time, to escape the demands of our colleagues or the hassle of crowds. But not_ alone _alone._

There’s no real thing as day or night watch anymore, not with the weather destroyed and the skies constantly cloudy. They slice the day up into shifts nonetheless, making sure that there’s always at least one person to keep watch at the helm. The only one exempt is Charles, who grumbled a lot at being treated like an invalid before having it pointed out that he was the only one who could work their modified version of Cerebro. “Fine then, but I’ll make up for it,” he’d said, and Erik had groaned a little at the steely look in his eye.

Erik likes being at the helm. The Blackbird can detect the Sentinels far off enough to give them enough time to get away, and they’ve not been caught in a truly bad situation thus far. The Blackbird was never meant to host four people full-time, and it’s rare that he gets a moment to himself these days. Logan’s snores aside, it’s as peaceful and tranquil as this life of theirs ever gets.

Well. It _would_ be, if Charles would stop being such a stubborn old fool and go to sleep when he should…

He doesn’t turn around as the soft humming of Cerebro shuts down as Charles pushes the headpiece away. “You would know about being stubborn,” Charles says dryly behind him, wheeling up to the co-pilot’s seat.

“I’ve hardly destroyed anything these past couple years,” Erik says, turning to look at him. “One might even say I’m out of practice.” He reaches out a hand, and Charles takes it, intertwining their fingers. It's a comfortable silence, punctuated only by the soft humming of the Blackbird. It's good. Peaceful.

He sends a wordless inquiry to Charles. Charles breathes out sharply through his nose before shrugging in reply. _Nothing yet_ , he says. _But their last missive said that they might be moving again._ He’s quiet for a moment. _I felt another one die_ , he says finally. _She tried to run, and they tore her to pieces._

Erik tightens his grip. There are renegades out there, desperate refugees who have escaped the Sentinels only to (for the most part) die, as there’s not much that Charles can do in the grip of Cerebro to aid them. Once Erik would have classified them as human or mutant deaths, caring far more for the latter. These days…well. The Sentinels make no such distinction, and in turn, neither will he.

Charles is his mind as a near-constant presence these days, and he catches the thought as soon as it brushes across Erik’s mind. There’s a weary smile on his face, but Erik treasures it nonetheless. There’s been too long when Charles had only anger for him, and even longer when they had nothing at all.

He traces his free hand across Charles’ cheek before turning back to the helm. Charles wordlessly passes him a series of coordinates, and Erik enters them into the Blackbird. The engines purr to full life, and they’re soon moving across the desolate, devastated landscape. There are no visible signs of life.

“They’re alive,” Charles says to the unspoken worry nestled in Erik’s mind. “Kitty left me a…message, you might call it,” he says. “They’re on the run again, but they’re headed towards what used be southwest China. She’ll leave us another marker when we’re close, I’m sure.”

“You have such faith in your children,” Erik says, and there’s only a trace of resentment in there. His own Brotherhood has fallen to ashes, torn apart first by his own stubbornness and the remains thoroughly destroyed by Pyro’s sheer idiocy.

“They’re not children anymore,” Charles says. “They haven’t been for quite a while.” He gives Erik a sidelong glance. “Abrupt end of innocence seem to be a recurring theme.”

Erik spent his childhood being tortured by a madman. The corner of Charles’ mouth twitches as he catches the thought, and he sighs. “That should have never happened,” he says quietly. Erik closes his eyes, letting Charles’ concern roll through his mind, a gentle wave before it subsides, remaining as a warm, steady presence in Erik’s mind.

Erik draws a breath. Regrets: old regrets, angry regrets, arching from his years with Schmidt to the CIA to…well…everything. Charles could have joined him; could have kept himself together in the Pentagon years. Erik could have joined Charles. He could have stayed at the school; stopped himself from paralyzing Charles; shut down Jason and walked away, leaving peace as an option. “We could have done so much more,” he says quietly. He’s not angry: rage is a young man’s gift.

“We did our best given what we had,” Charles said. He smiles wryly. “None of our gifts include being able to predict the future. Except Irene, but hers was more burden than gift.”

There’s sadness to the end of that sentence: Raven and Irene are a painful subject to both of them, even if Erik remembers them better as Mystique and Destiny. He looks at Charles, who’s staring out into the murky black. “I’m sorry,” he says finally. “For what it’s worth.”

It’s years overdue and to some extent, perhaps completely worthless. Erik feels foolish as soon as the words escape his mouth: what _is_ he apologizing for, exactly? There are so many incidents that it feels difficult to extract any single particular one. He opens his mouth to clarify and then stops, the words hanging unspoken in the air. Charles knows even as Erik struggles to articulate the thought. Of course he does.

“We’ve made enough mistakes,” Charles says quietly. “Let’s focus on how we can fix them instead.”

His mind is firm and resolute against Erik’s, a guardian of hope. Charles has always been excessively optimistic, and Erik used to look down on him for it. Now—now it means everything. “Old fool,” he says, any sting taken out of the words by the soft brush of his thumb across Charles’ hand.

Charles leans forward and kisses him, cutting off any further worries. Erik closes his eyes and leans into the embrace, feeling their hearts beat as one.

~*~

(Charles thinks that Kitty might be their hope. Erik’s doubtful, but he won’t let Charles down. Not again; not anymore.)

* * *

+1

_It is possible to connect, to find solace beyond ourselves._

“ProFESSor OROro! PROFESSOR ORORO! _HE STOLE MY LIGHTSABER!_ ”

Erik startles awake, sending papers flying everywhere. A blur of color runs by the open doorway, and all he can do for a moment is stare at it. He closed it. He’s positive that he did. And he definitely didn’t fall asleep on his students’ papers, much less drool over one of them—

“Professor?”

His gaze sidles to the left. There’s Sooraya, her eyes wide as she clutches a textbook to her chest. He looks at her, to the open door, and then to the wall clock. It reads ten past two, and he groans and rubs a head to his forehead. “Right,” he says. “I’m so sorry, Sooraya, I lost track of time.”

She grins. “I noticed,” she says, and she’s very polite to keep the laughter out of her voice. “Do you want me to come back later? I, uh—” her eyes flicker down to the drool-stained test sheet—“you might be busy?”

“No, no,” he says hastily. He scrubs at the drool with his sleeve before dropping the entire pile down by his feet. “I’m quite all right, don’t worry.” He clears his throat. “You said you needed help in Spanish, correct?” He pulls a sliding chair closer with a wave of his hand and nods at it. “Have a seat.”

“Yes,” she says, and she slides open her workbook to the relevant page. Erik pulls himself together well enough to make it through subjunctive verbs with some measure of coherency, circling her mistakes in the workbook and correcting them as he goes along. When the clock strikes three, she thanks him and packs up her bag to leave. He watches her go before turning back to pile of tests kicked under his desk with a sigh. _Charrrlessss_.

The reply is delayed and somewhat absent-minded. _Yes, dear?_ Charles asks. Erik recognizes it as Charles’ “tea break” pattern of mind, and he sends another mental nudge. There’s a moment as Charles orients himself to Erik’s frame of mind, and then: _Ah_. Definitely amused. _If you wanted less work, you could assign fewer tests._

 _It builds character_ , Erik says, although it sounded a lot better when he wasn’t grading papers late into the night. _And since when did you approve of going soft on the students?_

 _We’re a school, not a grinding mill,_ Charles says, but it’s a fond admonishment. _I like them to graduate with a minimum of tears shed._

 _You’ve become soft in your old age_ , Erik accuses.

 _Mm, well, someone has to be the nurturing one_ , Charles says, sounding completely unoffended. _Pain is just so bothersome to inflict_.

Erik rolls his eyes. _How very English_ , he says.

 _And I’m having a cup of tea, too!_ Charles adds brightly. _Earl grey. Care to join me?_

_You know I don’t care for tea._

_Well, then, come join me anyway,_ Charles says. Erik pauses, wondering if he’s imagining the faint slyness in Charles’ mental voice. Charles laughs softly in his mind. _I’m not a young man anymore, Erik. I’m far too old to have secret sex in the tearoom. It’s also very undignified._

Erik sends him a mental picture of Charles sprawled in the sheets of their bed, the blankets curled just far down enough to be indecent. He can feel Charles contemplating the image for a moment before finally saying, _Maybe tonight. After work is done_ , he adds firmly. Then, softer: _But I’d love if you’d join me anyway._

Well. When you put it like that…

Erik straightens up the stack of exams before standing up. Closing the door behind him, he walks at a dignified pace down the crowded intersection. The students stream past him—the younger ones greeting him brightly by name, the older ones too cool to do anything but nod as they walk past. The mansion is full of life: students, teachers, the community that they’ve gathered together. And then there’s Charles in the tearoom, smiling at him as he enters.

~*~

(It might not be the life he’s imagined, but it’s a good life. A better life, with Charles by his side.)

(He’ll take it over the silence any day.)

**Author's Note:**

> Parts I-IV are set in the XM:FC-original trilogy canon (where Charles never broke Erik out and Erik did his rampage of rampaging rampageness with kidnapping Marie, trying to murder all the humans, etc.), while 1 is set in the future shown at the end of DofP.


End file.
